Reflections
by Picklesticks
Summary: Various characters reflect during Aragorn's coronation at the end of RotK. Follows generally movie canon, occasionally book. FrodoSam. I'm revising the current chapters at the moment, one at a time. CHAPTER 1 UPDATED & REVISED
1. Frodo

It's gone.  
  
It's been days since Mount Doom, and I still can't quite believe it's gone. I can feel the taint it left on my soul, the darkness and distrust, the ugly, rotting hate that contaminates my very being. I'm wounded, and not simply in the flesh - the scar on my shoulder and missing finger are the least of the hurts I've suffered on this quest, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to heal. The Ring had me, in the end; it took me over. It was as though there was a little part of me that it didn't control, a little part that cried out against the dominion of the Ring, that fought to make my hand open and drop it down through the scalding air into the red-yellow- white ocean of heat below me. But that part of me was weak, was powerless to stop the Ring's control of my thoughts, my body, my very self. Even when Smeagol took the Ring from me, even when the agony of his teeth severing my finger overwhelmed my reason, even then I did not realize what had happened. All I could think was MINE! I nearly died from it. I nearly followed the miserable wretch on the plunge into the molten heart of the mountain.  
  
Sam saved me.  
  
Sam has saved me so many times on this journey; he's always been the strong shoulder for me to lean on, the arm supporting me when the weight of my own body and of the fiendish Ring about my neck became too great, the hand grasping mine, communicating wordlessly his devotion to me, his determination to see this quest through, and his love. He didn't have to stay with me - he was not the Ringbearer. He was not the one who was entrusted with the task of carrying the Ring to Mordor. I had no choice - I had to carry the Ring and destroy it. Sam chose freely to follow me; I would not, could not, have asked him to do so. Had he warned me of his intentions, I would have told him to go back. I would have done my best to see him stay in Rivendell. But that was before. That was when Sam was no more than a servant and good friend. I would not have asked a servant to follow me, and I would have tried to make a friend stay back. The more fool I.  
  
I would not have made it had he not come. I would have turned back so long ago, would have given up out of sheer despair had he not been there beside me, making sure I ate and slept, even going without food to make sure there was enough to bolster my waning strength. How did I ever deserve a companion like him?  
  
Strider is being crowned King of Gondor. He, too, saved me - saved us, saved Sam as well - by his near-suicidal attack on the Black Gate. It was only the Ring's destruction, and Sauron's, that saved him. I know this, only because I was told it.  
  
Gandalf: "He cleared the way for you, Frodo. He made an attack that could not possibly succeed, so that your way would be clear to Mount Doom."  
  
Gimli: "We thought to help you a bit, laddie. Distract those orcs - and the damnable Eye - to give you time to sneak through.  
  
Merry: "Who can crawl through a million orcs? Not even you, Frodo m'lad."  
  
Aragorn himself: "We knew Sauron had more orcs waiting. You were the one who would bring us true victory - all our victories on the battlefield would have been for nothing had you failed. We had to do anything we could to help you."  
  
My thumb moves restlessly through the empty space where the end of my left forefinger used to be. I can still feel pain there, as though my finger were still whole - the Healer taking care of Sam and me after we were rescued warned me of it. "It'll never truly go away," he said. "You'll always feel the pain a bit. All in your head." Everything's in my head. Everything. The pain from my finger, the gaze of the Eye, the screams of the Nazgul and their steeds, the shades of that damnable Ring's control. How did I survive, and not be left a madman?  
  
It was Sam. His loyalty, his unending friendship, his love, maintained me through all the misfortunes, sorrows, horrors, fears, and pains of the journey. Even when I turned my back on him, even when I looked at him with hate burning in my eyes, he followed me, looked after me, loved me, saved me. How could I have believed any bad intent of him? How could I have possibly thought he was out to steal the Ring? My mind was poisoned, and yet... and yet I still feel guilt, for I could not have said those words if they did not already exist within me. The Ring did not create; it merely brought to the surface and exacerbated. Before one can split a rock, there must be a fault in which to place the chisel. The Ring found the faults in my soul, placed a careful chisel of power and paranoia, and hammered steadily. It nearly broke me. It would have, had Sam not been so persistent, so loyal... and so in love.  
  
I would do anything to take back the harsh words I flung at him. Anything. How can I possibly look him in the eye anymore? I don't deserve anyone as loyal as Sam. How could I have turned on him, trusted that slimy wretch over he who was more than my dearest friend? Shame curdles my tongue.  
  
Sam's eyes flick over to me as though he knows what I think. The softness in his deep brown gaze draws me in, like the gentle embrace of his arms during the journey, the clasp of his hand on mine when the Nazgul came hunting me. Like the strong grip of his hand on my wrist as he pulled me back from the edge of death in Mount Doom. I feel comforted, reassured, by the warmth in his glance; something in the world is still good, even after all the evil that has been done. After all the battles, all the struggles, all the harsh words and hurts, there is Sam.  
  
I tried to tell him, while we were recuperating from the many injuries, strains, and stresses we had taken in our quest. I tried to express to him how deeply he had touched me, how I would have failed had he not been there. Tried to express to him how far beyond the demands of any bonds between us he had gone, beyond the bond of servant and master, beyond the bond of friend to friend, beyond even the bond of lovers.  
  
But Sam, in his usual selfless, ingenuous manner, shook his head, laying a finger across my lips to silence me. "Nah, Mr. Frodo, don't say it. You know your Sam, he's nothing special."  
  
I laid my hand over his, and kissed his palm gently. "No, Sam; you are very special. There's only one like you, and that is you; I don't believe there has been or will ever be another hobbit with your great heart, nor your great courage."  
  
Sam just shook his head, smiling, his warm brown eyes reflecting his pleasure at my words even while he continued to deny their veracity. "Mr. Frodo," he sighed gently, drawing me into his arms, "you're such a one for jokes, you are." But he held me, and I could feel the tension in his arms. His embrace was soft and warm, but the muscles in his arms and chest were tight; he knew how close he'd come to losing me. Knew that there could so easily have been three hobbits returning to the Shire, mourning their companion.  
  
"Just promise me, Mr. Frodo" – I never have been able to break his habit of addressing me thus, and I think I never shall, -- "just promise me, no more adventures. We've had enough for a lifetime." 


	2. Gandalf

I can't believe they did it.  
  
All wisdom said that I had sent Frodo to his certain death, and Samwise with him. All the evidence before anyone's eyes would have indicated that two small hobbits wouldn't be able to even make it to Mordor alone, let alone get through that evil land, bearing the one object that Sauron most desired, destroy it, and get out again safely. I was almost certain they had died on the way.  
  
Well, that just proves that even I don't know everything. They came through it whole (if you don't count a finger) and sane - which, especially for poor Frodo, was a lot. It had occurred to me that the Ring could get its talons deep enough into him that its destruction would wreak irreparable harm on his mind; it didn't. Everything and everyone succeeded admirably - the suicidal attack on the Black Gates, Frodo and Sam's perilous mission, everything.  
  
And yet, success is not free. All around us are reminders of the epic struggle that took place in order to end Sauron's life. Osgiliath is a near ruin, and Minas Tirith will forever bear the scars of battle that took place outside and inside it. Rohan has borne the depredations of Saruman, and its people will remember, even though the more transient structures of wood will not bear the physical marks as long as the stone of Gondor. The memories of the people run long.  
  
I am grateful that the darkness did not come as far as the Shire. I have always borne in my heart a special affection for the Hobbitfolk, and even the slightest touch of darkness upon their happy existence would leave a long-lasting stain.  
  
I know that I am not long to stay here; the power of Men is ascendant and the magics of old are fading, but Middle-Earth is a special place, and I am happy to see it preserved, not perhaps entirely intact, but in the core of its being whole and strong. Like a tree blasted by lightning, it has sustained injury, but its roots are strong and it will flourish again stronger than before. Aragorn is a wise man to lead the realm of Gondor; I cannot imagine a better king than one raised and educated by the Elves. It gives him a vision not easily granted to others. I can but hope his line will continue as strong; I will not be there to see it.  
  
I regret my leaving already, although there is a little time yet before I must go. A few years, when I have walked this land for millennia? It seems a little while, and not enough to say all the goodbyes that must be said, see all done that must be cared for. I have great affection for this land, and for the people in it; they have been my friends, and even something like my children, for longer than any of them can remember. Who will care for them when I have gone with the Elves?  
  
Aragorn will, as long and as much as he can. His heart is great; he will be not only a leader but a father to his people, for all that he is not old among them. He has learned to rule well, and will do so.  
  
I will miss this land.  
  
I have passed so many pleasant times among the people of Middle Earth, in all places from the grandeur of Minas Tirith to the simple pleasures of the Shire. My time here has been long, so long that these who are my friends cannot conceive of it, and maybe it's selfish to wish for yet more time, and yet I do. I long for the time to see Aragorn as King, to watch his reign and the reigns of his sons and grandsons, time to watch the hobbits enjoy their simple pleasures, to watch the herds of Rohan spread and grow. The journey has been long, but suddenly it seems too quick, as though the past three hundred lives of men had been but an instant. It has been so dear.  
  
And yet, I still enjoy it. The faces of the hobbits, as all kneel to them, still fill me with delight; they are such simple creatures, at least in their motivations and pleasures. Kingship to them is something to be avoided, glory, a nuisance. Frodo has done everything he can, in these past few days since we carried him from Mount Doom, to avoid those who would see him. He has only been willing to speak with those who were of the Fellowship; the few times he has come in contact with the people of Gondor, Rohan, or the Elvish lands, he has been embarrassed and done his best to shrink down to nothing. Even the long contact with the Ring did not succeed in truly poisoning him, despite the pain he will carry all his life. Like these lands, Frodo has been injured but will continue to grow strong. And I believe Samwise will aid in ensuring that Frodo continues to take pleasure in life - I have not missed the glances between those two, although they think they are being very subtle and discreet. Well, all to the better. Frodo could not have done all he did without the stalwart aid of his companion; that much is obvious. Now, he will need to heal, and a soothing presence will aid him greatly in that. Meriadoc and Peregrin have been their usual selves - I think sometimes that nothing will ever alter those two. Even staring eye-to-Eye with Sauron, through the medium of the Palantir, and striking at the King of the Nazgul will not dampen the mischief and merriment of those two - nor will it cure Peregrin's foolishness! For all I have called him a fool a hundred times over on this journey - for such is he! - I will miss him, too. It is part of a hobbit's charm that he never truly grows up.  
  
Legolas and Gimli have joined their respective peoples, Elves and Dwarves standing far apart on this citytop plaza, and yet... do I imagine, or are they not quite so far apart as before? Legolas and Gimli stand the nearer of their two delgations, occasionally glance at each other, smiling. I am glad - it only took the near destruction of all we hold dear to make an Elf and a Dwarf become friends! Their journey has been no less remarkable than that of the hobbits, and again I am cheered. Perhaps this will pave the way toward greater amity in the future - the future which I will not witness. It is almost like pondering death, I suddenly realize. Loss of the familiar, and travel to somewhere new that will be devoid of all I once knew. I want to remember and be remembered, but I would be happiest if I never had to leave! I have watched and guided the peoples of Middle-Earth for so long, it will be strange to let them go off alone. Old meddlesome Gandalf will become naught but a legend and a name, not a peregrine presence that comes and goes as he will.  
  
Would that some things would never change. No matter how dark times seem, there will always be spots of joy in the world. They must be cherished and treasured, for without the mischief of a hobbit, or the banter between an Elf and Dwarf paving the way to friendship, Middle-Earth would be a very dull place indeed. 


	3. Eowyn

I stand high at the top of Minas Tirith, along with all those who have survived. I shiver at the thought - those who survived. Those few, out of so many dead . . . my throat closes with well-shed tears as I remember the light fading from my uncle's eyes. Those who survived . . . we are left to pick up the pieces, to move on with our shattered lives. Our leaders - we, the leaders, for I am assuredly a leader of my people, crowned or not - must guide the shattered remains of what were once two great nations. Rohan and Gondor, the realms of Men . . . now blackened and scorched by hate, terror, and war. The people look to me as a leader, Théoden said . . . and I cannot help but recall the caves of Helm's Deep. Women old enough to be mother to me twice over buried their faces against my neck and shoulders, weeping, depending on me to be their strength. In that moment, I felt terror, for these were women to whom I would have looked, months, weeks, maybe even days ago, for guidance, for the wisdom they had collected. But when the sounds of the Uruk-Hai shook the very earth around us, and when we hid in the darkness, knowing not if our sons, husbands, brothers, fathers, kinsmen still lived, and when we knew with sick certainty that there were far too many, that children torn from their mothers' sides and old men pulled from the fireside could never stand against such an army as had been raised against us, these women, once the pillars of strength and collected wisdom, turned to the very child that had absorbed stories and lessons sitting at their feet. I am a leader to them.  
  
In the aftermath of the great battle of Minas Tirith, when I walked among the Gondormen and -women, I saw in their eyes that I was something different. I was not Éowyn the child, not the breathless young girl dreaming of adventure and begging sword lessons, and not the pillar whose shoulders were made to support the women who sent their menfolk to die. To the people of Gondor, I was Éowyn of Rohan, the warrior-woman, who rode into battle. Éowyn of Rohan, who with her very hand slew the feared King of the Nazgul. I am a living legend. One day, children will hear stories of me, of the girl who would not be left behind at the camp, who would not be content to merely shoulder the burden of womanhood. I will be praised, then, and am praised now, and yet . . . I am praised when people face me, but when I stand sideways, when my eyes appear to look elsewhere, there is unease. It is not womanly to wear armor. It is not the act of a good girl- child to take a sword in her slender white hand. It is not maidenly to fight amid the death and torment. In their eyes, I am something else, not quite a woman, for all my long hair and slender curves.  
  
Then I see her, white as a flower, decked with ornaments and looking like a maiden of legend. She is standing with the elven delegation, and in her graceful form and delicately tipped ears I see elven heritage, marred - or accented - by long raven hair, a color never found on a true Elf. That's it, then. She is the daughter of Elrond Half-Elven; she is a lovely maid whose slender white hands never saw a day's hard work. She is hiding herself - not from me, nor from the crowd - with a long banner, smirking a little as she watches the coronation through the translucent white cloth. Her eyes are glued to Aragorn's form, as are the eyes of all others, but . . .  
  
There is not the adoration there. The others watching see Aragorn son of Arathorn, a godling, the King of Gondor where no king has reigned for centuries. Those who are his friends, those I came to know, Gimli, otherworldly Legolas, and the dear hobbits, they look at him with a look in their eyes like proud parents. Those who know him only as Elendil's heir are openmouthed in adoration. And yet Arwen, alone of the crowd, smirks. The look in her eyes, and in the corners of her mouth that curl up just slightly, so slightly only another woman could see it, is that of a particularly troublesome horse, one that has stolen an extra treat behind your back.  
  
That's when I realize. She is the one who gave Aragorn that pendant. His lady-love, the girl to whom his heart is pledged, stands there to my right and smirks at him while he is crowned King. She smirks in triumph, because he is bound to her, heart and soul, and she will be Queen of Gondor beside him. She is decked as a bride; we will have not only a coronation but a wedding this day. There is a serene grace about Arwen, a grace like a swan, marred only by the barely-visible smirk that says she knows her grace all too well. Suddenly I feel plain - a stick-thin shieldmaiden, hands callused by sword and reins, face roughened with weather. Pain gleams in my eyes-the pain of those long, dark days when Théoden sat rotting on his throne and Wormtongue stalked Edoras. I see myself a plain, milk-pale child beside this raven beauty, and a curl of resentment lifts my tongue. Aragorn King of Gondor is a strong man, and needs a strong woman beside him, not some decorative Elf. A queen is more than a woman, she is a leader. I am a leader. 


End file.
